Saturday 24 September 2011 19.06 EDT
First published on Saturday 24 September 2011 19.06 EDT

Can everyone remember where they were when they first heard about Facebook? I can. It was a party and I was vaguely involved in an uninteresting group conversation. Only vaguely involved, so it wasn't my fault that it was uninteresting. Then again, all that is necessary for tedium to triumph is for fascinating men to let their eyes glaze over and nod. And I've always thought I was fascinating. But then I'm whose head I'm in, if you see what I mean. Anyone who doesn't find himself a pretty compelling subject for contemplation has a serious deficiency of self-esteem, that's what I say. And people's eyes glaze over and they nod.

Anyway, it was 2007 and I was nodding away and eating crisps when I realised I no longer had any idea what the people around me were talking about. "Is this what it feels like to have a stroke?" I briefly wondered, thinking anxiously about the salt content of crisps. A few moments passed and no one had put me in the recovery position so I felt compelled to get involved. "What are you all talking about?" I asked.

"Don't you know what Facebook is?" a woman said. No interrobang, you notice. It wasn't a rebuke. It was worse than that – she was trying to be kind. It was as if I'd confided in her about my literacy problems or asked her to feel a lump. I can't forgive Facebook for that pang of humiliation and consequently have never signed up – which I'm perfectly happy about and my friends even happier because it's a great way for them not to invite me to parties. I'd only eat all the crisps and ask stupid questions anyway.

But is this a sustainable position? Is joining Facebook becoming mandatory if you wish to remain part of the modern world? I'm sure it feels like that for teenagers and I think it probably does for most people in their 20s. I know I'm not on the technological cutting edge – I don't want to be – but neither do I want to be a modern-day equivalent of those who refused to have TVs in the 80s, a self-absorbed, neo-Amish anachronism flinging a judgmental glance behind me as I stomp out of society in a strop.

Initially, I assumed Facebook was just a fad like its predecessors and, when Twitter became popular and fashionable, it seemed that the MySpace trajectory was once again being observed. Having joined Twitter, I smugly waited for Facebook's inevitable demise, congratulating myself for having skipped a whole technological chapter and saved myself a lot of hassle, very much as would have happened with the fax machine if I hadn't made the eccentric last-minute decision to buy one in 1999. Then something nasty and unexpected happened: the zeitgeist left Facebook and yet somehow it survived. It was like the moment in Outbreak when the virus goes airborne.

It gets worse. Facebook is much more than an internet brand that's managing to ride the fad wave. It's becoming a monopoly. I know this because it's been mentioned in The Archers. A trade name in Ambridge! The place where old-school BBC rules about "sticky-backed plastic" and "a proprietary brand of spreadable yeast extract" still obtain to a ludicrous extent. No iPods, Walkmans, BlackBerrys or Kindles are ever mentioned but, in the last few weeks, the programme has started to call Facebook and Twitter by name. RIP Bebo. You only ever existed to demonstrate that "other social networking sites are available". Now there might as well not be. Everyone else is on Facebook and, if you update your status in the forest and there's no one there to read it…

I'm sure Facebook would claim it's not a monopoly – strictly speaking it isn't – but it clearly wants to be and, if there are whole sections of society who feel obliged to sign up in order to be able to communicate with one another, then its dreams are coming true. Next there'll be electric sheep. Facebook isn't aspiring to be Cable & Wireless or AT&T, major players within a medium; it wants to be the whole telephone network.

In some ways, this works well for everyone. It's more convenient if we're all joined up by the same social network, just as Google is more useful as a search engine because almost everyone uses it. It would be different if, like phone providers, different social media sites communicated with one another – if you could send someone a message from your Facebook account that popped up on their LinkedIn or Netlog page (I looked up those names on Yahoo). But you can't and, while it's providing its services for free, there's no pressure on Facebook to rein in its monopolistic urge.

The disadvantage of this state of affairs is that, when Facebook signs a multimillion-dollar advertising deal with drinks manufacturer Diageo, there's not much parents can do except complain and stock up on Hello Kitty cocktail glasses. Facebook points out that alcohol-related pages are only accessible to users pretending to be over 18 (those pretending the opposite really cheapen the brand) and says: "We care a lot about people, young and old." We'll be the judge of that, HAL. It didn't say: "Listen, guys, deal with it. When you're getting something free, you're not the customer, you're the product." But then, why should it give out information for nothing? That's our job.

Meanwhile, Diageo is intoxicated with success, citing a 20% increase in sales "as a result of Facebook activity". Irresponsible though it is at this difficult economic juncture to discourage children from buying Smirnoff, sometimes the government has to step in. Is it really in the public interest for Facebook, this service that we all use, this lobster pot we've swum into, to remain in private hands? After all, it's practically a public good. There must be strong economic arguments in favour of nationalising it.

That would protect our children from the purveyors of hard drink. It would also reduce by up to 50% the amount of online bullying and abuse they suffer, force us to cut down on the time we waste staring at our computers and increase by a similar ratio the leisure hours we spend getting exercise or meeting people. How would Facebook hit these targets if it were taken into state ownership? By doing what the public sector's harshest critics always accuse it of: not working half the time.